


What the Swift Mind Beholds

by MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gen, His Last Vow, Holmes Brothers, Missing Scene, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1591703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd/pseuds/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation between brothers.<br/>*****</p>
<p>They had never before spoken of it overtly. “He never will, will he?” asked Sherlock. It was an odd time for a sudden brotherly heart-to-heart—<em>Say, brother dear, I’ve just killed a man. Indeed, brother mine, but enough of that; let’s talk about your love life</em>—but then again, they were nothing if not odd. Sherlock let out a short snort of laughter which appeared to disturb his brother.</p>
<p>Mycroft studied him for a long moment before replying. “I doubt it, Sherlock.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Swift Mind Beholds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LitaJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitaJ/gifts).



> LitaJ: you were kind enough to hope that I would write more about the Holmes brothers. Here is a short piece for you, in appreciation of your thoughtful and encouraging comments.
> 
> This forms a sort of coda to [Without Remorse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1317631)

 

His brother’s reaction was unexpected. Sherlock had been prepared for the usual scorn and exasperation. Mycroft would not, he knew, be particularly repelled by the fact that he had killed a man (he was not a hypocrite, after all), though perhaps he had been surprised. No, it was the loss of control that would appall his brother. That and the stupidity.

Sherlock was prepared to concede that it had been a act of appalling stupidity. _Unfortunate_ , his brother would say daintily. _Regrettable_. And _careless, oh, so careless_. Mycroft, the caretaker of his mind palace, would look about him with a grimace and snap, _Really, brother mine, when will you outgrow this idiocy? Have you learned nothing?_

Or maybe, just maybe, this would be the time when his brother finally left Sherlock to twist in the wind, and there would be no caustic words, only silence.

What Mycroft said in actual fact was, “I didn’t think you had it in you,” and there was a faint note of admiration in the words, delivered shortly after the shooting, as soon as they were out of earshot of the special forces milling around Appledore. Sherlock stared at him and filed away this new bit of information, even as his brain, skittering ahead, was still providing Mycroft’s imagined sardonic lines: _poor planning and ridiculous posturing, yes, but murder, no._

“You understand why I did it,” said Sherlock. It was not a question.

Mycroft merely nodded. “I wish—” he began, then blinked and started over, “I hate to see you like this.”

“Yes, it’s _quite_ undignified, isn’t it?” snapped Sherlock.

Mycroft did not rise to the bait, but ran his hand over his hair and sighed, “I don’t mean all this—” waving his hand in the general direction of the flashing lights and bustle of activity—“I mean—” and he turned his head to where John sat in stoic, disbelieving silence, awash in a nightmarish blue light, under guard some distance away. To Sherlock he seemed unaccountably small and far off.

They had never before spoken of it overtly. “He never will, will he?” asked Sherlock. It was an odd time for a sudden brotherly heart-to-heart— _Say, brother dear, I’ve just killed a man. Indeed, brother mine, but enough of that; let’s talk about your love life_ —but then again, they were nothing if not odd. Sherlock let out a short snort of laughter which appeared to disturb his brother.

Mycroft studied him for a long moment before replying. “I doubt it, Sherlock.”

“You’re never wrong,” Sherlock whispered.

“There’s always a first time. Who knows?” Mycroft said, angling away from him in apparent embarrassment for this offering of sympathy, which Sherlock knew to be entirely spurious.

Sherlock made an impatient noise, then snarled, “Balance of probability.”

“Yes. He’s never had a same-sex relationship. He’s married to a woman, and they are going to have a child. Odds are against you.” Mycroft glanced about himself as though searching for something— _his umbrella_ , Sherlock noted—then settled for gazing at his fingernails. “I’m sorry,” he continued, shifting to look at Sherlock, who thought with mild surprise: _he really is_.

Sherlock did not reply, and the two spent a little time considering one another before Mycroft spoke again. “A child changes you beyond anything. Even if you are bound and determined not to change—it’s inevitable. Your priorities change; your whole outlook on life changes. You aren’t able to turn off all your fear and hope and expectation and love, even when you know you should let go.”

Sherlock fixed his eyes upon his brother. _He’s not talking about John anymore. Fear and hope and expectation and love. My childhood—my life—_ _me_ _, in a nutshell, from my brother’s point of view._ “You shouldn’t have had that thrust upon you at the age of seven.”

Mycroft deftly followed the turn of Sherlock’s thoughts. “It’s not their fault,” Mycroft said, meaning their parents. “I sought it out.”

“Something to occupy your time?” Sherlock asked without rancor, and he was pleased to see his brother smile.

“More or less,” said Mycroft. “Call it a pet project. An experiment, if you prefer.” Sherlock allowed himself a small smile back. At any other time he would have been outraged by the words. Now, for some reason, he didn’t mind.

“Sorry it didn’t turn out so well.” _Thank you_ , he had been tempted to say.

“It’s still ongoing.” Mycroft pulled at his own coat in an impatient manner that reminded Sherlock of the brother of his youth. Having settled the lapels into place, he said, “I have to leave you now. It’s going to be hellish, the next few days.” He sounded unperturbed at the prospect, undoubtedly already plotting the chess moves ahead, complete to endgame.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeated.

“Don’t be. I know what I’m doing,” and there was just the slightest emphasis on the “I.” Sherlock smothered a laugh. _Touché_. Then, in serious tones, Mycroft murmured, “Don’t worry.”

“You know I never do. That’s the problem,” replied Sherlock. He swallowed hard and thought that the pain in his throat must have come from all his previous shouting.

“That’s my job, little brother,” said Mycroft. He lifted a hand—did he think to wipe away an imagined tear from Sherlock’s face?— then lowered it after a moment of calculation. Sherlock saw the unconcealed look of pity in his brother’s eyes, and for once he did not resent it, for he knew that it was mirrored in his own.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Edna St. Vincent Millay’s sonnet that begins “Pity me not because the light of day.”
> 
> These are the ending lines:
> 
> This have I known always: Love is no more  
>  Than the wide blossom which the wind assails,   
> Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,   
> Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales:   
> Pity me that the heart is slow to learn   
> What the swift mind beholds at every turn.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Apologies for the American orthography and any errors. Feedback is appreciated!
> 
> You can find me at: [amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com](http://amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com)


End file.
